The Wandering Jew — Volume 10 eBook

“Perhaps,” said Mother Bunch to herself,
“conquered by the influence of the adorable
kindness of my protectress, I might have made to her
a confession which I could make to none other, and
revealed a secret which I thought to carry with me
to my grave. It would, at least, have been a
mark of gratitude to Mdlle. de Cardoville; but, unfortunately,
I am now deprived of the sad comfort of confiding
my only secret to my benefactress. And then—­however
generous may be her pity for me, however intelligent
her affection, she cannot—­she, that is so
fair and so much admired—­she cannot understand
how frightful is the position of a creature like myself,
hiding in the depth of a wounded heart, a love at
once hopeless and ridiculous. No, no—­in
spite of the delicacy of her attachment, my benefactress
must unconsciously hurt my feelings, even whilst she
pities me—­for only sympathetic sorrows can
console each other. Alas! why did she not leave
me to die?”

These reflections presented themselves to the thinker’s
mind as rapidly as thought could travel. Adrienne
observed her attentively; she remarked that the sewing-girl’s
countenance, which had lately brightened up, was again
clouded, and expressed a feeling of painful humiliation.
Terrified at this relapse into gloomy dejection, the
consequences of which might be serious, for Mother
Bunch was still very weak, and, as it were, hovering
on the brink of the grave, Mdlle. de Cardoville resumed
hastily: “My friend, do not you think with
me, that the most cruel and humiliating grief admits
of consolation, when it can be entrusted to a faithful
and devoted heart?”

“Yes, lady,” said the young sempstress,
bitterly; “but the heart which suffers in silence,
should be the only judge of the moment for making so
painful a confession. Until then, it would perhaps
be more humane to respect its fatal secret, even if
one had by chance discovered it.”

“You are right, my child,” said Adrienne,
sorrowfully, “if I choose this solemn moment
to entrust you with a very painful secret, it is that,
when you have heard me, I am sure you will set more
value on your life, as knowing how much I need your
tenderness, consolation, and pity.”

At these words, the other half raised herself on the
mattress, and looked at Mdlle. de Cardoville in amazement.
She could scarcely believe what she heard; far from
designing to intrude upon her confidence, it was her
protectress who was to make the painful confession,
and who came to implore pity and consolation from
her!

“What!” stammered she; “you, lady!”

“I come to tell you that I suffer, and am ashamed
of my sufferings. Yes,” added the young
lady, with a touching expression, “yes—­of
all confessions, I am about to make the most painful—­I
love—­and I blush for my love.”

“I love,” resumed Adrienne, with a long-pent-up
grief; “I love, and am not beloved—­and
my love is miserable, is impossible—­it consumes
me—­it kills me—­and I dare not
confide to any one the fatal secret!”